Saturday, March 23, 2013

Yes Cecil, A Long Story Short, Part Thirty-Seven

Jerome looked out from the bedroom
window. The black feather remained on the window ledge like a slender
leaf, while below, an exterior light diffusely washed a small area of
the gravel walkway revealing fallen leaves like footsteps of an
errant wanderer.

He returned to the desk and sat down.
He stirred the spoon in the glass of water before him and watched as
it was transformed into a shrouded consistency much like the
atmosphere outside. It had been recommended by Declan to overcome the
richness of the dinner. His housekeeper's recipe. It tasted salty and
slightly bitter, much like baking soda and something unknown to him.

He opened the
journal he had started, and began to write.

It is late. It must be past
midnight. Wednesday, in the dark, awakening. I was just looking out
of the bedroom window at fallen leaves on the pathway below and
thought of Thérèse, the leaves like her distant footsteps. I
remembered that oracles used to write their answers on leaves and
disperse them, the redeemers having to decipher the order and
meaning. The leaves below could be messages from a forest oracle. If
I gathered them, would I discover an answer to my question concerning
the mystery of Thérèse, or would the ambiguity of the answer lead
me astray, reflect my fears, mirror my desires? Or are they but
scattered emissaries of oblivion, or mere dust in my hands, sans sign
or symbol, a lure to coax me out into the night and its
uncertainties?

This reminds me of my youth, staying
up late and writing night thoughts while the city slept.

The night is foggy once again.
Declan said it was a half-moon night. The evergreen trees in the
distance seem to be one dark structure with Gothic carved pinnacles,
a wilderness cathedral for a fairy tale land where panthers and
unicorns wander secretly, tempting me to leave this comfortable warm
room for its very inverse.

Oh, dear, the wine is still talking.

When Thaddeus escorted me down to
dinner, we passed a fine Longcase clock with hands like a sword
handle and blade cutting the day in two, six o'clock; there was
nothing odd about that, except that it was still at six o'clock when
I passed on my way back to my room. The strange thing is, I thought I
heard it ticking.

When Thaddeus left me, I waited in
the drawing room for my host and hostess, a comfortable space with
antique furnishings and nineteenth century English art. Declan, husband of Lucrezia, took me by surprise when he entered
the room. He is a fascinating man and a tempting model for a
painting so unique are his features. He comes from humble beginnings,
Irish Catholic poverty in Point St. Charles. Self-made he seems,
self-made he is.

But the dinner! I've never eaten
venison let alone squab. Foie gras stuffed squab at that. I overcame
my resistance and looked upon it as an experience, but I admit to not
eating all the meat—the vegetables helped me through. The wine was
very robust and loosened my tongue. It was a fine dark red Malbec
from France, Cahors, the very best according to Declan. Thankfully
though, he's not a wine snob.

Lucrezia was dressed in dark slacks,
and a blue blouse with a strand of pearls. Declan was in green. Even
though they were both casually dressed, I still felt a bit shabby,
but was not made to feel so. Lucrezia was at first quiet before
dinner, but later became more talkative, a few gleams of fugitive
wit. One phrase I remember was, “I generally look up when things
are on the way down.” I can't quite remember in what context she
said it though. I would think it more his sort of phrase. Perhaps it
is and she used it. Stocks falling in value, birds falling out of the
air, autumn leaves descending, or the decline of old money. Best to be out of the way if things
are falling I would say. Or is it possibly a religious reference?
Fallen angels? Back to my imaginary oracle.

I'm still a bit muddled from the
wine. Not used to drinking so much, especially expensive wine.

If I wake early, I shall try and get
out and explore the gardens and the maze, get some fresh air, and
possibly a sense of where I am. Breakfast is to be at eight.
Supposedly Thaddeus is to be my alarm clock.

It was just the three of us for
dinner. A daughter is away at university in the States studying
medicine. If she is anything like her parents, she should be
interesting. What happens when two green-eyed people have a child?
Mendel's pea comes to mind—my remnants of high school science.

Declan mentioned he had been
interested in buying Boreas, a
painting by Waterhouse that had come on the market back in the 1990s,
but the bidding went over what he was willing to venture, the picture
selling for close to $1.3 million. He described the picture to me,
and used the word purple to describe the woman's diaphanous shawl and
dress caught in the wind, but Lucrezia thought it more blue than
purple. This discussion of clothes and colours, brought up a fleeting
memory of a dream I must have had before coming down to dinner. I was
in some kind of subterranean area like the métro, with modern art,
and a purple SUV, which I felt was mine, but then I saw a man drive
away in it, a man who I felt was my father. Very odd. There I was
sitting at the table, my mind adrift with dreamscapes while they
looked on as if I had entered some kind of catatonic state. Perhaps
they were thinking I was contemplating the nature of painting and
commerce, how certain styles of painting can be left behind and
under appreciated, and then once more gain fashion, like
Burne-Jones's The Last Sleep of
Arthur in Avalon. New art slays old art, and then old art
rises like Lazarus when fresh eyes are born in another age. I managed
to respond, somewhat hesitatingly, that I could try to paint a
reproduction of Boreas for
much less than $1.3 million. They laughed.

I seem to be rambling, the wine
still pulsating in my veins, directing the pen. Some of this may
appear senseless tomorrow morning.

We dined very casually. Declan at
the head of the table, and Lucrezia across from me. We touched toes
twice. The table was a very long Chippendale and it would have been
rather ridiculous if they sat at opposite ends and me in the middle.
There was a dumbwaiter cleverly disguised behind a Flemish still
life, and Declan was our server. Yes, it was very odd. He told me, as
he brought the first course to us, that he used to be a waiter at the
beautiful art deco restaurant on the ninth floor of Eaton's
department store. He said it had been a wonderful place to work, good
for making powerful connections, and helped to pay his way through
University. He said he never forgets his roots, and that it gave him
pleasure to “pitch in” from time to time.

After dinner, Declan brought me
through to his library. A large room with beautiful oak shelving and
panelling. Many sets, Dickens, Bulwer Lytton, Scott, Conrad, and
interesting travel books. He collects R. B. Cunninghame Graham, the
only author he tells me, who, as far as he knows, has dedicated a
book to a horse. He showed me first editions, some inscribed, and
told me a bit about the author; also a story concerning Solomon J.
Solomon who, when preparing to paint a portrait of Sir Walter Raleigh
for the House of Commons, asked Cunninghame Graham to be the sitter.
Declan opened one of Graham's books and showed me a sketch of the
author. Very Raleighish. Impressive. An aristocratic socialist
according to Declan. A right old Hidalgo who was active in Scottish
politics

I then told him about artists and
their search for faces. The story of how the unusual London artist,
Austen Osman Spare would use local down-and-outers for faces from the
Elephant and Castle neighbourhood where he lived, while Osbert
Lancaster, the successful caricaturist, would use the faces of
members of the clubs he belonged to. Artists in need of faces. High
and low.

This just reminded me of the
reproduction of Albayde
by Alexandre Cabanel which I have over my desk, the nose of the woman
is very close to that of Lucrezia's. Of course.

Memories, like built up layers, from
gesso to imprimatura, from impasto to fugitive colours.

Declan then led me to a book shelf
in the corner of the room. He pushed in one volume and the bookcase
quietly opened towards us. A sham library door. The titles on the
spines were amusing. Some of the many titles I can remember are “Lamb
on the Death of Wolfe”, “Bleak Houses,” and “John Knox on
Death's Door,” all beautifully bound in leather with gilt
lettering. Perhaps the whole door was imported form England.

Declan's private study lay within.
It was approximately 300 square feet in dimension, and contained a
few old walnut cabinets filled with books, an old leather club chair,
side tables, lamps, a large mahogany desk, a number of marble
pedestals with bronzes, and on the walls between the cabinets,
selected works of art, his Varleys, a few larger paintings of ships
and rough seas, and one large Pre-Raphaelite painting. I was stunned.
Overcome. He said it was the fourth version in oil of Dante Gabriel
Rossetti's “Proserpine.” The model is obviously Jane Morris, but
her hair is auburn. I was overwhelmed. The sonnet in the upper right
hand corner, and his signature and date, 1880 in the lower left. I
didn't know what to say. It was quite beautiful. Declan said it came
with an old English house he purchased, “Castlebourne.” Many of
the furnishings, books and bronzes as well. The old house had a
history going back to the 17th century, with various
additions and alterations through the years. The painting is
stunning. The way the woman's clothing falls like ripples of water.
Extraordinary. He appreciated the effect it had upon me and
proceeded to his desk where he pulled out a leather case and opened
it to reveal a locket of hair which he told me belonged to Rossetti's
wife, Lizzie Siddal. I looked upon this memento mori and I thought of
Thérèse.

On the way out of the library, he
stopped and gave me a two-volume set of Rossetti's poetry in case I
was in need of reading material. It may have been around 9:00 when I
returned to my room. I soaked in the bath for awhile and then read a
few of Rossetti's poems but could only think of the painting. Perhaps
the bed was too soft, the pillows too plump, but though I tried to
sleep, I merely tossed and turned, the tapestries and their
narratives watching over me. The ship above my head made me feel I
was beneath the water looking up. Then I heard something pass in the
corridor outside my door and I decided to get up and write in this
journal. Now I feel properly exhausted. I am not used to such
stimulation. Such richness in all its variety. If oblivion takes me
now, at least it will be in luxury.

Jerome put his pen
down and stretched his neck and shoulders. He reached out for the
glass of cloudy water which he had been unsure of and drained the
glass, feeling much like a romantic poet having his nightly laudanum.
He closed the journal and made his way back to bed. One volume of
Rossetti lay upon the sheets, and he picked it up and looked at the
table of contents. One poem he noticed was called Insomnia and
he thought that would be appropriate. He flipped to the page and read
the poem:

Insomnia

Thin
are the night-skirts left behind

By
daybreak hours that onward creep,

And
thin, alas! The shred of sleep

That
wavers with the spirit's wind:

But in
half-dreams that shift and roll

And
still remember and forget,

My
soul this hour has drawn your soul

A
little nearer yet.

Our
lives, most dear, are never near,

Our
thoughts are never far apart,

Though
all that draws us heart to heart

Seems
fainter now and now more clear.

To-night
Love claims his full control,

And
with desire and with regret

My
soul this hour has drawn your soul

A
little nearer yet.

Is
there a home where heavy earth

Melts
to bright air that breathes no pain,

Where
water leaves no thirst again,

And
springing fire is Love's new birth?

If
faith long bound to one true goal

May
there at length its hope beget,

My
soul that hour shall draw your soul

For
ever nearer yet.

Jerome,
thinking of Thérèse, closed the book and placed it on the bedside
table, and turned off the lamp The darkness left him blind and he
closed his eyes and let those half understood stanzas carry him like
pall bearers into the realm of sleep.

Chumley's Rest

On Books

Henry James Quotes

The only success worth one's powder was success in the line of one's idiosyncrasy. Consistency was in itself distinction, and what was talent but the art of being completely whatever it was that one happened to be? One's things were characteristic or were nothing.

-The Next Time (Story originally published in The Yellow Book; issued in his collection Embarrassments, 1896.)

"We know too much about people in these days; we hear too much. Our ears, our minds, our mouths, are stuffed with personalities. Don't mind anything that anyone tells you about anyone else. Judge everyone and everything for yourself." (R. Touchett)